


dj got us falling in love again

by amillionsmiles



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: F/M, POV Shiro (Voltron), somebody help these 2 they are ridiculous, wow i love rivals to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-01-26 14:26:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12559404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amillionsmiles/pseuds/amillionsmiles
Summary: After first meeting each other at last year's MixXMiami finals, DJs Pidge (Katie Holt) and Blue (Lance McClain) are set to collide for the second time.McClain may have a bit of a crush.Holt just wants to crush him.





	dj got us falling in love again

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [the feel-good hit of the summer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2389424) by [disco_vendetta (brinn)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinn/pseuds/disco_vendetta). 



> As indicated above, the format of this is heavily inspired by an awesome fic I read about three years ago, written for The 100.
> 
> special shout-out to [Amanda](http://spacetravels.tumblr.com/) for the art piece at the end! :)

**WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE**

* 

_DJ PIDGE and DJ BLUE are set to collide for the second time at this year’s MixXMiami finals.  I follow the two of them around for a week to get some insight into their musical processes and their personal stakes in the competition—and even manage to secure a joint interview at the very end._

*

 

 **I MEET** Katie Holt on an elevator.  She’s in the process of hauling her equipment up to her hotel room and immediately recruits me to the cause—before I can ask, I’m holding a black box bristling with buttons whose purposes I can only guess at.

“Don’t drop it,” she warns.  With her chic pageboy haircut and green high-top sneakers, she looks like the heroine of an action movie.  Which makes me the hapless sidekick, I suppose.  Indeed, as she adjusts the headphones around her neck and turns to me, there’s a certain fire in her eyes, like a demolitions expert about to flip a switch, ready for the world to explode.

The 21-year-old from Fort Myers first burst onto the DJ-ing scene last year, scoring second place in the Florida finals and turning a lot of heads in the process.  “Nobody knew where she came from,” said one of the judges, a producer for Olkari Records. “When someone shows up with that level of technical skill, you’ve got to wonder where they’ve been hiding.”

Up northeast, it turns out.  To quote Shakespeare: “Though she be but little, she is fierce.”  Katie Holt is all of five-feet-tall, but underneath that hood hides an impressive amount of brainpower—the DJ holds dual degrees in computer engineering and mathematics from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.  Receiving the full force of her attention is a bit like having a cannon trained on you. 

I start by asking her about her stage name: how does one get “Pidge” from Katie Holt?

“It’s something my older brother called me when I was little,” Holt explains.  “The funny thing is that I used to hate it.  But everyone has this persona they adopt when they get behind the table, and when I was starting out, that was the first thing that popped into my head.”

I don’t get to ask my follow-up question.  Someone else joins us in the elevator.  If you’ve ever experienced a sudden loss in cabin pressure, well—the ensuing change in atmosphere is exactly like that.  The person responsible is none other than Lance McClain, of “DJ Blue” fame and reigning MixXMiami champion. 

“Lance,” Holt greets frostily.

“Katie,” McClain returns, with a shit-eating grin.  “Didn’t think I’d catch you this early.” 

They go back and forth.  Holt wants to know what McClain is doing in the hotel; McClain explains that he has a room of his own.  This seems to throw Holt for a loop: “Why do you need to be set up in a hotel?” she asks.  “Aren’t you already from around here?”

 

 

 **LANCE MCCLAIN is** , indeed, “from around here.”  His grandparents immigrated to Miami from Cuba in the 1960s, making their home in Little Havana.  McClain grew up playing in Domino Park on Saturday afternoons and attending the monthly arts festivals hosted along Calle Ocho.  An active member of his elementary and middle school music club (“I learned guitar to impress my first crush,” he confesses), he became fascinated with the world of DJ-ing after a lackluster sixth-grade dance. 

“It was terrible,” he recalls.  “I think whoever made the playlist was so worried about what was appropriate for our ears and what wasn’t, and it just made the whole thing crap.  And I remember being like, how can anyone be that out of touch with the crowd?”

Two years later and he’d score his first gig, at fourteen—the youngest of four other siblings, his oldest sister was able to sneak him into a club.

“Technically it wasn’t my gig, it was Charlie’s, but he and my sister were tight so he let me mess around and basically have at it.  I’m allowed to admit to this whole story now, since I’ve become moderately successful,” laughs McClain.  “But I can tell you that my mom was _super_ pissed when she first found out.” 

Since then, though, his family has been nothing but supportive, and Lance has thrived.  Miami seems to love him as much as he loves it, and the 23-year-old says that his home city’s local flavor heavily informs his music.

“It’s what I’ve grown up with,” he says.  “I mix in a lot of Afro-beat, Miami bass, stuff my friends listen to, throw in some nods to movie tracks here and there…a whole hodgepodge, really.”  His DJ moniker, in turn, is a tribute to his heritage: “‘Blue’ is this catch-all for that ocean, island life.  Growing up in Miami, you can’t escape the beach.  And I’ve never been to Cuba—it’s a little hard, you know, with the travel restrictions—but I remember my grandma showing me pictures of Varadero, and it’s just—you feel this call.  I don’t want to be corny, but I think a lot of people can relate: there’s this longing that just runs in your blood.”

It’s this poetic instinct that leads many to vibe with Lance’s work.  There’s a certain fluidity to the way he combines tracks that becomes especially riveting when juxtaposed against Katie’s crisp precision, which is what happened in last year’s finals.  It was a true clash of the titans: an MIT whiz kid computer scientist turned sound engineer, who got her start tinkering with a friend’s music system and jockeying for frat parties, versus the Miami boy born and bred, who’d “always known” where his heart was and seemed to cruise by on instinct and innate musicality.  McClain walked away with the title last year, but the look on Holt’s face screams _vengeance_.

The elevator dings.

“This is me,” Lance says, backpedaling with a wink, and I can almost hear Katie’s teeth grinding.     

Let the games begin.

 

* * *

_“…A win would be awesome, not just from a personal standpoint but also for visibility purposes.”_

* * *

 

 **IN THE HOTEL ROOM,** Katie walks me through her equipment.  “This is the crossfader,” she explains, pointing to the sliding bar along the bottom.  “That’s what most people are going to mess with when it comes to tricks.”  She goes on to list these different tricks for me—I do my best to keep up.

The broadest category is “scratch,” aptly named for the sound it produces.  Underneath that label, however, are a host of specifics.  There’s “transform,” which got its name because the noise it produces sounds a lot like the robots in the early 1980s _Transformers._ The “tear” is when you ditch the crossfader completely and pull the record back with your hand.  The “stab,” the “chirp,” and the “flare” are all distinguished by how far you push the crossfader, or how fast you switch it back and forth.  Finally, there’s the “crab,” which involves some complicated succession of movements with the four fingers of your “fader” hand, all while your other hand pushes the record forward and back.  The multi-tasking here makes my eyes cross; it’s like the whole “rub your stomach while patting your head” exercise, but at warp speed.

“Most of the time I’m not doing anything this fancy,” says Katie, when she catches the bewilderment on my face.  “The average clubber just wants to hear their favorite songs blended together well.  But when you’re gearing up for a competition, you start practicing upwards of five, six hours a day.” 

How does she balance that time alongside other commitments? 

“I don’t sleep,” she says.  “Well, I do, but it’s usually at some ungodly hour.  The perk is that when I do crash, though, I’m out like a light.”

Her dedication is admirable, and she speaks and performs with such prowess that it’s hard to believe she got her start only two years ago.  “Katie’s always been like that,” Sam Holt, her father, said in a separate interview.  “Once she gets interested in something, she wants to get as far into it as she can.”

If her current trajectory is anything to go by, Katie will, indeed, be going far.  But that brings up the question of just what she has in mind for her career, as well as how this particular competition plays into those future plans. 

“DJ-ing is a sausage-fest,” Holt says, point-blank.  “You say you’re interested in it and guys immediately go, ‘oh, that’s cute.’  God forbid they take you seriously.  There’s this idea that only _they_ can really love the technology and understand it, which is total B.S.  I _get_ these machines, and then being able to use that knowledge to push what they can do and make something new? That’s super cool.  That shouldn’t be exclusive.  So yeah, a win would be awesome, not just from a personal standpoint but also for visibility purposes.” 

 

 

 **VISIBILITY IS NOT A PROBLEM** for Lance.  Later that night, I join him at the club.  He emerges from a sea of slinky tops and pounding fists to hand me a bright blue jello shot that tastes like coconut.  I barely have time to down it before he grabs my arm and pulls me into the fray.  Once there, his gravity becomes even more apparent: guys and girls flock toward him, moths drawn by a flame.  Sweaty and resplendent, Lance grins at them all.  His smile catches the light and throws it back at you like a disco ball of its own—it’s hard not to be a little starstruck.

We eventually spill into a booth.  “This is me doing research,” Lance shouts over the noise, throwing an arm out wide.  Somebody mistakes his gesture as a request; a girl with bright pink eyeshadow and two high ponytails comes over with drinks.  I get handed another shot.  Lance knocks his back and goes on to explain: “I like to keep my finger on the pulse of things, see what music is getting people up and on their feet.”  

Right on cue, the beat changes and a new song comes on.  Someone who I haven’t met yet—though the flashing lights might be messing with my facial recognition—stops by our booth, tugs at Lance’s arm.  He shrugs at me with a _what can you do._ You can’t fight the music, I guess.  We are whisked onto the dance floor and stay there for a solid thirty minutes before taking another breather.

“To be honest, I’m more interested in being a producer,” Lance confides at the bar. By this point, I’ve gulped down my fifth jello drink—they’re a bit addicting.  “At the same time, I’m not really ready to step down from DJ battling.  I’ve met a lot of cool people through it, and you don’t get that blend of musicality, competition, and performance in a whole lot of other places.” 

I ask him if there’s one of those three that’s more important to him than the others.

“I’ve got a competitive streak, no doubt,” he says with an easy smile.  “If we’re talking strengths, though, it’s definitely performance.”  He winks.  “I’ve always known how to put on a good show.”

 

 

 **THIS STATEMENT** is something Holt confirms later.  I’m a bit sluggish from staying out last night, but coherent enough to follow her as she assesses the competition.  While DJ bouts are decided randomly for the preliminaries, she is confident that she’ll make it far enough to match-up against McClain at least once over the course of this tournament.  When that time comes, she’ll be ready.

“Lance is a showboat,” says Katie.  Once again, no minced words.  “Sure, he can blend tracks, but he’s so caught up in showing off his behind-the-back or under-the-leg moves that he can get super repetitive with his beat juggles and scratches.  That’s where I plan on beating him.”

We get into the details of her set.  The silent battle round, which will take place tomorrow evening, hinges mostly on musicality.  That one is judged by crowd appeal.  The turntables round, though, is where most of the flexing happens.  Depending on the personalities behind each table, there can be a lot of crossfire.  Competitors craft whole diss tracks and alternate between spinning their records and flipping each other off—“good-naturedly,” of course.

“Mine’s not as gung-ho, but I’m still proud of it,” says Holt.  “In the silent battle round, you work directly from your computer software.  When you get to the turntables round, you have to splice everything together and then transfer it to the vinyl.  Which sounds go on the left disc, which ones go on the right.  Then, in between each of those sound clips, you’ve got to get the spacing exactly right so that it’ll land where you want it to when you’re up there and mixing.”

Quite the painstaking process, but Holt seems to revel in it. 

“It’s a lot of trial and error.  It’s science.”  She says this with a reverence that most other people would use to talk about sunsets, or God.  “I actually finished recording my competition sets months ago.  From here on out, it’s just practice, practice, practice.”

 

* * *

  _“…you’ve gotta look up.  Give them something to root for.”_

* * *

 

 **MEANWHILE,** in the hotel room two floors down, McClain lounges on his bed.  His computer is open, and he props himself up on an elbow as he speaks to me.

“It’s like, 90% done,” he says when I ask him about his mix for the turntable round.  Not to worry, because he’s “usually pretty seat-of-the-pants with this stuff.  I don’t like to settle, so I’ll wait for that perfect burst of inspiration.  Right now I’m missing a little _oomph_ on the intro and outro parts, but I’m pretty confident that I’ll have something by the time D-day rolls around.”

Does _he_ anticipate a match-up with Holt?

“I’ll be disappointed if we don’t, not gonna lie.  Katie’s really fun to go up against; she’s a total beast at the controls.  It’s a good challenge.” 

What would he say are her weaknesses?

“Showmanship,” he says immediately.  “She gets real into the tech stuff, and I respect that, but you’ve gotta remember your crowd.  Some of the other DJs call her ‘The Robot.’”  He tries to play it off casually, but I can tell the nickname doesn’t sit well with him, for whatever reason.  “I’m always telling her, you’ve gotta look up.  Give them something to root for.”  

His use of “always” draws my curiosity.  I wasn’t aware that the two had any correspondence going on behind the scenes.  Deciding to pull at the thread, I ask: how often does he reach out to Holt?

McClain deflects.  “Just like, in passing, I mean.”  He becomes suddenly engrossed in fiddling with the Rubik’s Cube on his nightstand and avoids eye contact.

Interesting.

 

  

 **THEY LIGHT UP** the night like fireflies.  Over 300 people are in attendance, crammed into the square.  This is just one pocket; at various spots in the city, three other silent battles are being waged for the long-awaited first round of _MixXMiami._   Each battle consists of 4 DJs, for a total of 16; the top 2 in each group will advance to the turntable round.  By luck of the draw, DJ Pidge and DJ Blue have ended up in the same bout, joined by DJ Rebel and DJ Blade.

I step out of the way of a woman carrying two champagne bottle sparklers over her head, their golden fizzle crackling in the air.  For the sake of impartiality, I’ve been tuning into each of the four DJs’ channels throughout the night.  Every time I switch stations, my headphones change color to document my shift in allegiance.  Red, purple, blue, green.  Those who are listening to the same tracks find other members of their tribe.  A stocky man with a silver nose ring steps past me to join the crew of people whose headphones currently glow bright purple.  Their fists pump to an invisible beat.

Slowly, I drift toward the DJ table, where the mixmasters are hard at work on their sets.  Not wanting to disturb Katie, I turn toward her brother instead.

Matt Holt and his sister look uncannily alike, which he acknowledges with a laugh.  “Oh, yeah, we get that a lot.  Katie’s freshman year roommate thought we were twins the first time I visited.”

I ask him what he thinks of his sister’s choice of pursuit.  “I mean, yeah, part of me’s a little sad she didn’t come out to work at NASA with me,” Matt admits.  “We had it all planned out when we were younger: kick ass, go to space, represent the human race, that whole spiel.  But I’m old enough now to let her pick her own battles.”  He shrugs, a proud smile on his face.  “Nine out of ten times she wins.”

Sure enough, a sea of green dots the square, though it seems almost equally matched by the camps of blue.  DJ Blade and DJ Rebel have fallen behind, their pockets of purple and red mostly confined to the outskirts.  It’s not too late to steal the victory—numbers won’t be tallied until just past midnight—but the scene bodes well for our frontrunners.

“Anyways,” says Matt, “Katie’s probably only told you about the cool stuff, so I’m here to humanize her, dish a little dirt.”  Fans, take note.  Apparently Katie Holt, despite being Italian, “hates tomatoes in anything except sauce.”  She sleeps with socks on, even in the summer, because her feet are “always, like, negative ten degrees.”  And one of her favorite movies is Drew Barrymore’s _Never Been Kissed,_ even if she’ll never admit it. 

“Katie’s going to strangle me for this later,” Matt cackles, but requests I print it anyways.

On the other side of the coin, I get to touch base with Hunk, McClain’s best friend growing up.  The two met in the third grade, backstage during the end of the year talent show. 

“I can’t even fully remember what my act was,” Hunk laughs.  “It had something to do with a slinky?  Lance came up to me afterwards and was just like, ‘you’re really cool and I want to be friends.’  Easy as that.”  From there, it became a relationship built on sharing earbuds, launching bottle rockets, surfing, and science fair.

“Not many people know this, but Lance is a huge bio nerd,” confides Hunk.  “Ask him about our ninth grade project.  We watched _so_ much footage of sharks.”

“It’s been awesome to be part of his journey over the years,” he continues.  “Best friend privileges means I get to be first to listen to anything he’s working on.  I try to help out on my end, too; I’d consider myself a techie so when there’s stuff fritzing with his equipment I can usually figure it out.”

I ask him what he thinks of the whole Pidge-Blue rivalry. 

“No comment,” he says, but it’s with the eyes of a long-suffering soul.  Hunk is solid as a rock, though; he refuses to budge on his statement no matter how hard I pry.

To round out the evening, I decide to get some perspective from a more casual audience member.  The first interviewee who opens up to me is dressed head to toe in black, save his red sneakers and the corresponding red glow of his headphones.  I’m tempted to ask if his choice to tune into DJ Blade’s station is a deliberate part of his aesthetic, but I refrain.

“It’s cool to get a chance to be here because I’ve followed all of these people’s stuff,” shrugs the man, who later tells me his name is Keith.  “At the end of the day, we’re all here to listen to music.” 

Around 12:30, the tallies come in.  The people have voted; it’s the DJ table’s turn to listen to the crowd.

The victory goes to Katie.  The humid Floridian air makes some of her hair stick to her cheeks; she wipes sweat off her brow and grins, effervescent.  A round of applause goes up for all the competitors, the burst of noise officially breaking the spell of the silent battle.  Headphones are shucked off and returned.  Corks pop free from bottles like starting gunshots as a heavy bass takes over, one I can feel in my chest.

“Now what?” I ask Matt, who has materialized beside me.

DJ Rebel has taken over the controls; the others abandon their posts.  Lance and Hunk appear, dragging me into the coalescing crowd.

“Now, we celebrate.” 

    

 

**“THIS FUCKING SUCKS.”**

I’m at the hospital.

More accurately, Katie Holt is in the hospital, looking markedly less concerned about the whole thing than I am.  In fact, her expression sits somewhere on the spectrum closer to miffed.

Earlier today, the DJ fainted from heat stroke after a brief stint at the beach.  Matt has gone to purchase snacks from the cafeteria.  I’ve been left to make sure that, in his absence, Katie doesn’t decide to vault out of bed and make a run for it.  Right now, she paints a stubborn picture, leaning grudgingly against the pillows.  Her fingers tap an impatient rhythm on the sheets.

“You should rest,” I say.  Clad in her hospital gown, she looks frighteningly young.  The whole incident serves as a reminder of the overwork that plagues these artists.  Last year saw the likes of DJ Rax and DJ Regris—arguably men at their prime—suffer from similar episodes; indeed, I’m more surprised that Katie’s subsistence on nothing but energy drinks and potato chips didn’t do her in sooner.

Our awkward silence is interrupted by a cleared throat: “Miss Holt, you have a visitor.”

Katie cracks open an eye, frowning.  “But who would—”

Lance.  Lance McClain would, it turns out, track down his rival in a hospital, bearing a bouquet of daisies.  His usual bro tank has been switched out for a white v-neck.  My eyebrows climb in surprise before I manage to school my features—not that it matters, because the two are both too preoccupied with some sort of stare down.

Katie speaks first. “Here to gloat?”

McClain’s eyes flash.  “Ease up, Holt,” he says.  It’s strange to hear such an edge to his voice, given the easygoing manner he’s projected around me the past few days.  There’s no other chair for him to sit in, so I stand to offer mine, despite the look Katie sends me.  We’ve stumbled into charged territory, here, two matches placed against each other.

Some men just want to watch the world burn.  Quite possibly I am one of them.

McClain takes the seat.  I excuse myself under the pretense of finding Matt.  As I leave, the chair scrapes closer to Holt’s bedside, McClain’s voice pitched low in reprimand.

“If we go up against each other, it better be when we’re both on our A-game.  I can’t have anyone saying I didn’t beat you fair and square.”   

“Bite me,” Holt scoffs, then sneezes.  “Also, I’m allergic to daisies, asshole.”

 

 

 **D-DAY ARRIVES** with all the pomp and circumstance one would expect.  Katie has recovered from her earlier incident and looks more well-rested than I’ve seen her all week, a victory in itself.  Lance has finished compiling his set just in time.  Though he remains close-lipped about any specific details, he tells me, “I feel good about it.”

The grand stage has been cordoned off.  Behind it, various press members (yours truly included) stand, surrounded by aficionados who have made the pilgrimage to see their faves compete.  Others owe no particular allegiances; they are here simply to be impressed and entertained.  Here, the top eight DJs from the silent battle round convene.  Each will receive a holistic score from the judges, a combination of mixing ability, track selection, showmanship, technical skill, and crowd reaction.  While technically this means that the DJs are _all_ competing against each other, they will still face off in pairs (MixXMiami’s team has calculated the formula that gets them the most audience engagement, and they’re sticking to it).

Allura—yes, _that_ Allura, of last year’s breakout album _Castle of Lions_ —opens as emcee.  The singer has recently decided to start up a music label of her own, with the aid of her uncle, Coran.  The rumor mill is spinning; the possibility that Allura might select one of the DJs here tonight to bring into the studio as producing talent or as a sound engineer has added a whole new level of stakes to the competition.

“Obviously I can’t comment on favorites,” Allura says, when I finally manage to fight my way to the front to get a word with her.  “But I will say it’s refreshing to slowly see a diversity of representation up there.  Hopefully with time we get even more!”

And then it’s the moment everyone’s been waiting for.  The competitors come roaring out of the gates, and while my ear is still not sharp enough to discern the hairpin nuances between a stab and a chirp, I am quickly sucked into the atmosphere.  People bob their heads up and down.  There’s a deep chorus of _oooohs_ when DJ Blaytz pulls out a spin move against DJ Haxus, a series of foot-stomps when Haxus counters with a perfectly timed fade into his next track and two middle fingers up. 

There’s a bit of nostalgia, too.  The crowd goes wild when Holt’s set opens with the SEGA games start-up noise and continues to be utterly riveted from there.  The technical wizardry is truly something to behold, each finger moving so fast I can hardly keep up.  I understand, now, Matt’s earlier complaint about how Katie absolutely decimates him at video games.  And I understand, too, McClain’s issue with others calling Holt “The Robot,” because it’s a grossly reductionist nickname.  There’s a palpable amount of love and care that has been poured into perfecting this set, and it’s a real beating heart up there when she finally brings it to completion, rolling her neck as she looks out at the crowd.

And of course, because MixXMiami knows how to work toward a finale, Holt’s “opponent” is none other than McClain.  He’s in his element onstage, charm turned to full blast.  Showmanship and style, indeed.  _We move like the ocean_ croons his track, before he drags us along into a quick series of scratches and transforms.

But it’s his outro that’s the clincher.  _I’m here to win,_ proclaims a mystery voice—female, from the sound of it, which makes me do a double take as it loops with each chirp and flare.  _I-I’m here to-here to win-here-here to win—_

_you._

It’s not the word that anyone expects him to end on, but given the performance he’s delivered up to this moment, the confusion is quickly brushed aside.  Only because I’ve spent the better part of a week learning the habits and micro-expressions of the two people onstage do I think to look closer.

On Holt’s face: shock.  Meanwhile, McClain’s usual mask of bravado has slipped, and it’s then that I realize: the ending of this set wasn’t designed for the crowd.  He’s tossed his hat in a different ring, tonight.  _Look up_ , he’d advised Holt before, _give them something to root for,_ but maybe this whole time what he’d really been trying to say was: _look up—see me._ And now, for better or for worse, she does.

 

 

 **IT TAKES ME A FAIR AMOUNT** of detective work to track the two down after the bout.  When I do, I find McClain backed against a wall, his shoulders slightly hunched in a defensive position.  There’s a reddish flush to Holt’s skin, her hands balled in fists at her side.

“That was my voice on that track,” she’s saying.  “But not—I didn’t say those words like—like _that._   What kind of game are you playing—”

“I’m not.” McClain swallows.  “C’mon, Katie, you’re smart enough to put two and two together.”

Holt’s lips thin into a line.  She steps forward. Thinking that I’m about to witness a fight, I head toward them to intervene. 

Contrary to my expectations, though, Holt does not, in fact, head-butt McClain; nor does her fist make contact with his face.  Instead, she grabs him by the front of his shirt and hauls him down for a kiss.

Well.

How the turntables.

 

 

 **AFTER** the deliberations.  After Allura’s rolling accent and the camera shutters clicking and the presentation of the giant check.  After the handshakes and congratulations and the white and gold confetti on the floor.  I see them leave, moving in sync with each other.  Holt has to take two steps for every long-legged stride of McClain’s, but he still pauses to hold the door open for her.  Off to the side, I see Hunk and Matt exchange knowing looks.

Right now, it doesn’t matter who’s holding the trophy—the true prize was won much earlier.

  

* * *

_“Sometimes you hear two songs and you just know that they belong together.”_

* * *

**I DON’T** manage to wrangle the two together for a joint interview until the next morning, in Katie’s hotel room.  Lance offers me a sangria made with ingredients from a newly-stocked fridge.  There are coasters on the coffee table, which I presume are also his call.  It’s startlingly domestic, considering that both are set to check out of this place by tomorrow morning.

The two of them get settled on the couch.  We open by talking about what Lance plans to do with his $4000 in winnings: “Put it in the bank.”  McClain goes on to say that he’ll probably continue with some gigs here and there but that he wants to focus on producing his own music in the coming year.  Teasingly, I ask if that means we’ll get to hear him bust out some vocals as well.  Holt butts in: “Trust me, he sings.”  It’s delivered in the same tone a long-married wife might use to say, “He snores,” about her husband. 

Like I said, domestic.

Meanwhile, Holt has walked away with her own deal: after the competition, Allura approached her with a proposal.  The two will be collaborating on the singer’s next album, with Katie as her sound engineer.  I can only imagine what that’s going to sound like and want to know all the details immediately. 

“Too late, I already signed the non-disclosure agreement,” says Katie.  “But I’m really happy.  Allura’s great, both as a singer, obviously, but also just as someone to spend time with.”  She digs an elbow into McClain’s side.  “Lance is actually super jealous of me.”

The other DJ rolls his eyes.  McClain is pressed up against Holt’s left, arm draped over her, absentmindedly rubbing circles on her right shoulder with his thumb.  A look gets exchanged between them: McClain raises his eyebrows, Holt wrinkles her nose.  She squeezes his knee.  I start to feel like I’m intruding and clear my throat.

What about _this_ collaboration? I ask, gesturing between the two of them.  How long has that been in the works?

“Katie won’t admit it, but she’s been in love with me since we first met,” Lance says (Holt’s scowl and kick to his shin speaks otherwise).  Unfazed, he continues, “In all seriousness, I can’t really pinpoint an exact _when,_ but I think part of me always knew it’d happen eventually.  Comes with the territory, you know?”

I’m a bit lost.  Holt also seems uncertain as to where this is going.

“DJ,” Lance elaborates, aiming a finger-gun at me with the hand slung over his former foe, now-girlfriend’s shoulder.  “Sometimes you hear two songs and you just know that they belong together.” A pause, for dramatic effect.  Cue the record scratch, freeze-frame.  Here, he levels Katie with a gaze fond enough to make anyone’s heart, to use music terminology, “skip a beat.”

“Sometimes it’s the same with people.” 

 

 

* * *

 

 _T._   _Shirogane is a writer for_ Rolling Stone _magazine. His work has appeared in_ Vanity Fair _and_ TIME, _and you can visit his blog at_[www.techashiro.com](http://www.techashiro.com)


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